米德尔马契 英文版 Middlemarch
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XLVIII
Surely the golden hours are turning grayAnd dance no more, and vainly strive to run:I see their white locks streaming in the wind--Each face is haggard as it looks at me,Slow turning in the constant clasping roundStorm-driven.
Dorothea's distress when she was leaving the church came chieflyfrom the perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speakto his cousin, and that Will's presence at church had servedto mark more strongly the alienation between them. Will's comingseemed to her quite excusable, nay, she thought it an amiablemovement in him towards a reconciliation which she herself had beenconstantly wishing for. He had probably imagined, as she had,that if Mr. Casaubon and he could meet easily, they would shakehands and friendly intercourse might return. But now Dorothea feltquite robbed of that hope. Will was banished further than ever,for Mr. Casaubon must have been newly embittered by this thrustingupon him of a presence which he refused to recognize.
He had not been very well that morning, suffering from somedifficulty in breathing, and had not preached in consequence;she was not surprised, therefore, that he was nearly silentat luncheon, still less that he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw.For her own part she felt that she could never again introducethat subject. They usually spent apart the hours between luncheonand dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubon in the library dozing chiefly,and Dorothea in her boudoir, where she was wont to occupyherself with some of her favorite books. There was a littleheap of them on the table in the bow-window--of various sorts,from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon,to her old companion Pascal, and Keble's "Christian Year."But to-day opened one after another, and could read none of them.Everything seemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus--Jewish antiquities--oh dear!--devout epigrams--the sacred chimeof favorite hymns--all alike were as flat as tunes beaten on wood:even the spring flowers and the grass had a dull shiver in themunder the afternoon clouds that hid the sun fitfully; even thesustaining thoughts which had become habits seemed to have in themthe weariness of long future days in which she would still livewith them for her sole companions. It was another or rather afuller sort of companionship that poor Dorothea was hungering for,and the hunger had grown from the perpetual effort demanded by hermarried life. She was always trying to be what her husband wished,and never able to repose on his delight in what she was. The thingthat she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have, seemed to bealways excluded from her life; for if it was only granted and notshared by her husband it might as well have been denied. About WillLadislaw there had been a difference between them from the first,and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsedDorothea's strong feeling about his claims on the family property,by her being convinced that she was in the right and her husbandin the wrong, but that she was helpless. This afternoon thehelplessness was more wretchedly benumbing than ever: she longedfor objects who could be dear to her, and to whom she could be dear.She longed for work which would be directly beneficent like thesunshine and the rain, and now it appeared that she was to livemore and more in a virtual tomb, where there was the apparatusof a ghastly labor producing what would never see the light.Today she had stood at the door of the tomb and seen Will Ladislawreceding into the distant world of warm activity and fellowship--turning his face towards her as he went.
Books were of no use. Thinking was of no use. It was Sunday, and shecould not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had a baby.There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent,and Dorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have bornea headache.
After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud,Mr. Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where,he said, he had ordered a fire and lights. He seemed to have revived,and to be thinking intently.
In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a rowof his note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her handa well-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others.
"You will oblige me, my dear," he said, seating himself, "if insteadof other reading this evening, you will go through this aloud,pencil in hand, and at each point where I say `mark,' will make across with your pencil. This is the first step in a sifting processwhich I have long had in view, and as we go on I shall be ableto indicate to you certain principles of selection whereby you will,I trust, have an intelligent participation in my purpose."
This proposal was only one more sign added to many since hismemorable interview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon's originalreluctance to let Dorothea work with him had given place to thecontrary disposition, namely, to demand much interest and labor from her.
After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, "We willtake the volume up-stairs--and the pencil, if you please--and in case of reading in the night, we can pursue this task.It is not wearisome to you, I trust, Dorothea?"
"I prefer always reading what you like best to hear," said Dorothea,who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was to exert herselfin reading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever.
It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristicsin Dorothea impressed those around her, that her husband,with all his jealousy and suspicion, had gathered implicit trustin the integrity of her promises, and her power of devoting herselfto her idea of the right and best. Of late he had begun to feelthat these qualities were a peculiar possession for himself,and he wanted to engross them.
The reading in the night did come. Dorothea in her young wearinesshad slept soon and fast: she was awakened by a sense of light,which seemed to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset aftershe had climbed a steep hill: she opened her eyes and saw herhusband wrapped in his warm gown seating himself in the arm-chairnear the fire-place where the embers were still glowing.He had lit two candles, expecting that Dorothea would awake,but not liking to rouse her by more direct means.
"Are you ill, Edward?" she said, rising immediately.
"I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture. I will sit herefor a time." She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up,and said, "You would like me to read to you?"
"You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea," said Mr. Casaubon,with a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner."I am wakeful: my mind is remarkably lucid."
"I fear that the excitement may be too great for you," said Dorothea,remembering Lydgate's cautions.
"No, I am not conscious of undue excitement. Thought is easy."Dorothea dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more onthe same plan as she had done in the evening, but getting overthe pages with more quickness. Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alert,and he seemed to anticipate what was coming after a very slightverbal indication, saying, "That will do--mark that"--or "Passon to the next head--I omit the second excursus on Crete."Dorothea was amazed to think of the bird-like speed with which hismind was surveying the ground where it had been creeping for years.At last he said--
"Close the book now, my dear. We will resume our work to-morrow.I have deferred it too long, and would gladly see it completed.But you observe that the principle on which my selection is made,is to give adequate, and not disproportionate illustration to eachof the theses enumerated in my introduction, as at present sketched.You have perceived that distinctly, Dorothea?"
"Yes," said Dorothea, rather tremulously. She felt sick at heart.
"Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea."
"What is it?" said Dorothea, with dread in her mind.
"It is that you will let me know, deliberately, whether, in caseof my death, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoiddoing what I should deprecate, and apply yourself to do what Ishould desire."
Dorothea was not taken by surprise: many incidents had been leadingher to the conjecture of some intention on her husband's partwhich might make a new yoke for her. She did not answer immediately.
"You refuse?" said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone.
"No, I do not yet refuse," said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the needof freedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn--I think it is not right--to make a promise when I am ignorantwhat it will bind me to. Whatever affection prompted I would dowithout promising."
"But you would use your own judgment: I ask you to obey mine;you refuse."
"You cannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?"
"Grant me till to-morrow," said Dorothea, beseechingly.
"Till to-morrow then," said Mr. Casaubon.
Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no moresleep for her. While she constrained herself to lie still lest sheshould disturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in whichimagination ranged its forces first on one side and then on the other.She had no presentiment that the power which her husband wishedto establish over her future action had relation to anything elsethan his work. But it was clear enough to her that he would expecther to devote herself to sifting those mixed heaps of material,which were to be the doubtful illustration of principles stillmore doubtful. The poor child had become altogether unbelievingas to the trustworthiness of that Key which had made the ambitionand the labor of her husband's life. It was not wonderful that,in spite of her small instruction, her judgment in this matter wastruer than his: for she looked with unbiassed comparison andhealthy sense at probabilities on which he had risked all his egoism.And now she pictured to herself the days, and months, and years whichshe must spend in sorting what might be called shattered mummies,and fragments of a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought fromcrushed ruins--sorting them as food for a theory which was alreadywithered in the birth like an elfin child. Doubtless a vigorouserror vigorously pursued has kept the embryos of truth a-breathing:the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning of substances,the body of chemistry is prepared for its soul, and Lavoisier is born.But Mr. Casaubon's theory of the elements which made the seed of alltradition was not likely to bruise itself unawares against discoveries:it floated among flexible conjectures no more solid than thoseetymologies which seemed strong because of likeness in sound untilit was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible: it wasa method of interpretation which was not tested by the necessityof forming anything which had sharper collisions than an elaboratenotion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as aplan for threading the stars together. And Dorothea had so oftenhad to check her weariness and impatience over this questionableriddle-guessing, as it revealed itself to her instead of thefellowship in high knowledge which was to make life worthier!She could understand well enough now why her husband had cometo cling to her, as possibly the only hope left that his laborswould ever take a shape in which they could be given to the world.At first it had seemed that he wished to keep even her aloof fromany close knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually the terriblestringency of human need--the prospect of a too speedy death--
And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to herhusband's past--nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which hadgrown out of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathinghardly under the pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding,and the heavier limbs; and now at last the sword visibly tremblingabove him! And had she not wished to marry him that she might helphim in his life's labor?--But she had thought the work was to besomething greater, which she could serve in devoutly for its own sake.Was it right, even to soothe his grief--would it be possible,even if she promised--to work as in a treadmill fruitlessly?
And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, "I refuse to contentthis pining hunger?" It would be refusing to do for him dead,what she was almost sure to do for him living. If he livedas Lydgate had said he might, for fifteen years or more, her lifewould certainly be spent in helping him and obeying him.
Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to theliving and that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead.While he lived, he could claim nothing that she would not stillbe free to remonstrate against, and even to refuse. But--the thought passed through her mind more than once, though shecould not believe in it--might he not mean to demand somethingmore from her than she had been able to imagine, since he wantedher pledge to carry out his wishes without telling her exactlywhat they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only:that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers.
And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no fingerto your work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart.
For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt illand bewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as achild which has sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a latemorning sleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up.Tantripp told her that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and wasin the library.
the theses enumerated in my introduction, .
"I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figuredwoman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne.
"Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly.
"Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose.But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected?Do rest a little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and notable to go into that close library."
"Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wantsme particularly."
When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfilhis wishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet.
As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round fromthe table where he had been placing some books, and said--
"I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hopedto set to work at once this morning, but I find myself undersome indisposition, probably from too much excitement yesterday.I am going now to take a turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder."
"I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared,was too active last night."
"I would fain have it set at rest on the pointI last spoke of, Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer."
"May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea,winning a little breathing space in that way.
"I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour,"said Mr. Casaubon, and then he left her.
Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bringher some wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes,but not in any renewal of the former conflict: she simply feltthat she was going to say "Yes" to her own doom: she was too weak,too full of dread at the thought of inflicting a keen-edged blowon her husband, to do anything but submit completely. She sat stilland let Tantripp put on her bonnet and shawl, a passivity which wasunusual with her, for she liked to wait on herself.
"God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movementof love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she feltunable to do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet.
This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and sheburst into tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm. But soon shechecked herself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass doorinto the shrubbery.
"I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom foryour master," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in thebreakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities,as we know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anythingbut "your master," when speaking to the other servants.
Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he likedTantripp better.
When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among thenearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before,though from a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effortat fellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spotwhere she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship fromwhich she shrank. Neither law nor the world's opinion compelledher to this--only her husband's nature and her own compassion,only the ideal and not the real yoke of marriage. She saw clearlyenough the whole situation, yet she was fettered: she could notsmite the stricken soul that entreated hers. If that were weakness,Dorothea was weak. But the half-hour was passing, and she must notdelay longer. When she entered the Yew-tree Walk she could not seeher husband; but the walk had bends, and she went, expecting to catchsight of his figure wrapped in a blue cloak, which, with a warmvelvet cap, was his outer garment on chill days for the garden.It occurred to her that he might be resting in the summer-house,towards which the path diverged a little. Turning the angle,she could see him seated on the bench, close to a stone table.His arms were resting on the table, and his brow was bowed down on them,the blue cloak being dragged forward and screening his face oneach side.
"He exhausted himself last night," Dorothea said to herself,thinking at first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house wastoo damp a place to rest in. But then she remembered that of lateshe had seen him take that attitude when she was reading to him,as if he found it easier than any other; and that he wouldsometimes speak, as well as listen, with his face down in that way.She went into the summerhouse and said, "I am come, Edward; I am ready."
He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep.She laid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, "I am ready!"Still he was motionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaneddown to him, took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close tohis head, crying in a distressed tone--
"Wake, dear, wake! Listen to me. I am come to answer."But Dorothea never gave her answer.
Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she wastalking deliriously, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gonethrough her mind the night before. She knew him, and called himby his name, but appeared to think it right that she should explaineverything to him; and again, and again, begged him to explaineverything to her husband.
"Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise.Only, thinking about it was so dreadful--it has made me ill.Not very ill. I shall soon be better. Go and tell him."
But the silence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken.